


older chests

by worry



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Episode: s02e01, Introspection, M/M, Pylea arc, through
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-18 11:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14212044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worry/pseuds/worry
Summary: He likes the attention, at first; smart and cute, says the Host, and Angel thinks of the name on his wrist. It’s not - it’s not Buffy. It should be Buffy, he thinks, it should make sense. It should click in place, gears turning.He doesn’t know anyone named Lorne.





	1. watch their city change

**Author's Note:**

> i know there's already a soulmate au out there for them, and it's REALLY good, but i'm interested in how soulmate marks would work on people who don't have souls...

_ i. _ __  
  


_ Beings with no souls cannot have soulmates. Angelus does not have a soulmate, he doesn’t adhere to a soul or what having a soul looks like, his skin is pale and rough, there is nothing pumping into his heart therefore his heart does not work. He is fresh-faced, buried in Darla’s gold, and he uses his new teeth to scrape the name off of his skin. He has no soul, would rather ash himself in the depths of sun than have anything resembling such a downfall. _

 

_ Yet the name remains, and his teeth do not scar. The word is in an untranslatable shade of green - trees, he thinks, or would if he was poetic. The silver shine of an olive tree, the color of his land.  _

 

_ He thinks that, if he does have a soulmate, it should be Darla. Darla’s name should adorn his wrist, and his name should be carved into Darla’s— _

 

_ Again: he cannot afford that kind of weakness. He is a monster and adores it, licks the blood from his teeth right up. Look at the darkness surrounding him, look at the little place in history that his monstrousness has secured him, a space between ribs, the space between cold fingers, pressed into the dirt as he dances on top of a torso, with no life to operate. _

 

ii.

 

Angel cannot breathe.

 

Here is the ultimate reality, frozen like bone: Angel cannot  _ breathe.  _ So he takes breath from others, so he picks up a weapon and he does what was written into his code: he fights, fist-sword, the body of ancient humanity colliding with metal, which produces a champion, which produces a man

 

who still can’t breathe but tries his best to keep the world’s chest rising, falling. That’s it - the world is a deep breath, the world

 

is a pink lung, a pluck on the inner strings of the helpless. 

 

And he gets tired.

 

It is tiring, having the world in your hands. The world is heavy, and glass, and he is just so  _ tired. _

 

He likes the attention, at first;  _ smart and cute,  _ says the Host, and Angel thinks of the name on his wrist. It’s not - it’s not Buffy. It should be Buffy, he thinks, it should  _ make sense.  _ It should click in place, gears turning.

 

He doesn’t know anyone named Lorne.

 

“There are three things I don’t do,” Angel says, and it rolls out like fire, pours through his teeth acidic, “tan,  _ date,  _ and sing in public.” It feels  _ wrong,  _ soul-shattering. Part of it is true: he doesn’t date. He falls in love.

 

He looks into the eyes of the Host, blood-red, and walks out, away, removes himself from the Bad Situation. For a moment Angel imagines himself like this: human, bathing in sun. He is not pale, he looks  _ human  _ and it is true, it is golden, the aura moving over him is  _ golden.  _ He is a different creature, worthy.

 

Oh. He’s been here before. In this fantasy, however, the world is blessed and there is something like God, or something besides him that can protect the world. He no longer has to fight. He can focus on other things, like love. 

 

As he leaves, he hears it;  _ how fabulous would I look in that coat? _

 

iii.

 

“Angel,” she says, voice calm-yet-firm, a winding spiral of trouble. Cordelia is walking fast to catch up to him, and she’s daring to walk through his favorite damp, messy sewer tunnel, so something  _ must  _ be wrong.

 

“Cordelia,” he responds flatly. The tone is in jest, but -  _ something is wrong.  _

 

She grabs his forearm to slow him down, yanks on it  _ hard.  _ “Admit it,” she says, curling her hair behind her ear. Her eyes flutter closed-open in mocking patterns. Oh  _ no.  _

 

“Admit what?” he asks, lamb-innocent. Cordelia is being Cordelia. Angel is being Angel. They are two people, underneath the ground. They are just two people. He thinks about the fantasy---Cordelia is the good, the reigning. He would be  _ lost  _ without her.

 

“You do have a heart.”

 

“Yeah,” he replies. “Surprising, isn’t it?”

 

“Shut  _ up, _ ” she says, but she’s excited now. “You know what I’m talking about.”

 

Angel frowns. “I don’t, actually.”

 

Her eyes spread wide. “That demon host guy? You were totally into him.”

 

His first reaction should be this: denial,  _ what are you talking about, I don’t date, remember? Remember, Cordelia? That’s what I said, I don’t date. I don’t feel things and I burn in the sun and I am a monster.  _ He  _ should  _ be offended at the suggestion, should find it horrifying; instead his hands fall to his side, and he gives a very stupid, entirely unconvincing  _ psh. _

 

“No,” he says, fuck. “I don’t - no.  _ No. _ ”

 

“Well,” she says, “he was totally into  _ you  _ at the  _ very  _ least.”

 

This is interesting. He reacts instinctively different; straightens his coat ( _ how fabulous--- _ ), blinks exactly twice, and bites down on his cheek to stop himself from smiling. Despite his lack of romantic or sexual feelings for the Host, it does feel very validating to know the Host was kind of maybe perhaps - into him, as Cordelia says.

 

“What? Really?”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Angel, he called you cute.”

 

“Well, he did, but that doesn’t mean—”

 

“He was looking you up and down like you were the - the  _ sexiest  _ piece of meat he’d ever….” She sighs. “You know. He was checking you out. He watched you when you left. He likes you.”

 

Now the smile cracks through, just slightly. “You think so?”

 

“I know so,” she says. “I know these things.”

 

“We just met.”

 

“So?” she smiles, and hits him playfully on the chest. “This could be good for you, I think.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, clicking the cool demeanor back on. “Except I don’t like him like  _ that,  _ and it’s not like we can… you know… anyway. At least, I don’t think so…”

 

“Ha!” Cordelia exclaims. “You’re thinking about it now.”

 

“Goodbye, Cordelia,” he says, and begins his trek again, away away  _ away  _ from the confrontation. He can hear Cordelia’s knowing laugh, and as he grows farther and farther away, he looks at the name on his wrist, buries himself in the green.

 

It almost looks like—


	2. starting small

Angel is good at saving. He saves the woman and saves her child; this is what he does, this is just what he  _ does.  _ He saves and he saves but he never can quite grasp what is beyond that, can never fully wrap his fingers around the meaning of  _ redemption.  _

 

He wants to go back to Caritas. He’s not sure why; redemption, surely, does not lie there. But the Host does, and he’s a nice change of pace—upbeat, joyful. The Host knows the truth about him.  _ He has to _ . He has read Angel’s aura, he must know the pain, the tooth-and-claw spiral. Yet he doesn’t judge, only looks at Angel with a smile, a slow wink.

 

So Angel finds himself here: halfway through the Caritas doorway, halfway outside. And it feels - normal, like he has found solace, cradled.

 

He takes another step, over the threshold, and his arm starts burning. At first he thinks, on instinct, that it is the sunlight - stupid. It is midnight in Los Angeles, the air around him is cool, and the atmosphere around him is alive, pulsing with light, movement, and  _ music.  _

 

[ The Host could be asleep. People do tend to sleep, sometimes. ]

 

Heads turn to him briefly, before they go back to their own business, drinking, dancing. There is a red-colored demon singing a surprisingly good rendition of  _ Tainted Love,  _ which means that the Host must still be here, reading. 

 

Angel remembers how much he  _ hates  _ this. He hates being in public, hates socializing.  Illogically, however, seeing the Host again makes it feel worth it,  or at the very least slightly less draining.

 

This is - ridiculous. He wants to leave.  _ Tainted Love  _ is over, and the sound has bled out of the room, and his arm is still stinging. This was not a good idea. Angel wants so desperately to see him again, and he doesn’t know why. He just -  _ wants.  _ This is not going to end well. Angel is intrigued, wants to try the Host on, feel his life. 

 

Angel turns, puts his hand against the door, and feels, immediately after, another hand grasp his arm, right above the wrist. 

 

“Leaving so soon?”

 

The touch is - nice. It stops the burning. Angel is too frigid to sink into it.

 

“Hi,” he says sheepishly, and he turns back. Their bodies are impossibly close. Angel is sure that everyone else in Caritas can feel the spark.

 

The Host leads him over to the bar, but neither of them sit; instead the Host leans up against the side of it, and Angel stands near, hoping -  _ hoping?  _ \- that -

 

“What do you need?” the Host asks. “Come on. Don’t be embarrassed. Trust me, I’ve seen just about everything here. This one guy -- a werewolf -- sang Bohemian Rhaspody here once.  _ On a full moon.  _ So—”

 

“I don’t need anything,” Angel interrupts, and it’s a little bit too rough. “Not really,” he adds, bleeding his words into softness. He nods slightly. “Why do you assume everyone wants something from you?”

 

He frowns, slightly, until the happiness springs back. “Because 99% of the time, that’s all that goes on here.”

 

“Well,” Angel says, risk rolling from his mouth, “you deserve more than that. You deserve… a break.”

 

“ _ Tell  _ me about it.” He laughs. “I know I do, gorgeous, but hey, I’ve got a business to run. Things to do, auras to read.” 

 

Angel looks around. “It’s midnight. Does this place  _ ever  _ close?”

 

“Why are you here, Angel?” he asks, and - the tone is different now, serious. Angel thinks, momentarily,  _ gorgeous, he’s worthy _ —

 

“I don’t know,” Angel admits. “I guess I just… wanted to see you.”

 

The Host’s eyes widen, and he stares at Angel for centuries; he glances over Angel’s body, studies Angel’s face. The Host is calculating his sincerity, and Angel - he just  _ wants.  _

 

And a miracle happens: the Host walks away. Up onto the stage. He turns the karaoke machine off, and says quietly into the microphone, “We’re closing early tonight. Sorry, folks. Come back tomorrow.”

 

There are upset groans from the audience, but they all walk out, single-file. Angel has never seen a multitiude of demons such as this one…  _ obey.  _

 

“You didn’t - you didn’t have to do that,” Angel says. “I’m sorry. I’ll just—”

 

“You’re not going anywhere, honey.” The Host approaches him again. “I already closed down. It’d be… well. Insulting. If you left now.”

 

“Right,” Angel replies. “Yeah. I… yeah.”

 

“Take a seat,” the Host tells him; he sits at the bar, and gestures to the seat directly next to him. “Let’s talk for a while.”

**Author's Note:**

> pls kudos + comment if u enjoyed!


End file.
